


Start of Something Good

by Letsnottalkaboutitaye



Series: Mafia [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 17:28:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15152114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letsnottalkaboutitaye/pseuds/Letsnottalkaboutitaye
Summary: Felicaino killed himself. He did. And it was Ludwig's fault. Following a whispered trail set by a Frenchman and using a map given to him by his brother, Ludwig sets out to find closure. Will he find more than that? ALTERNATE ending to Remorse, wraps up the romantic subplot. Reads like one-shot, so you don't have to have read Remorse or any of the Mafia trilogy.





	Start of Something Good

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I had originally posted this as the actual ending to Remorse, but upon realizing that you guys are amazing and hated it as much as me, I moved it to be an add-on WHAT COULD HAVE HAPPENED deal. (I tried to be nice, give y'all a break, but turns out y'all didn't want that and I understand) This makes me feel so much better, you guys. You have no idea. 
> 
> It reads like a completely different story, is unrealistic in the ways of the world, and is romance-oriented because fuck. I hope that someone finds it enjoyable, or not, I don't care I just know it took me seven hours to write :) (which it too long for such a short chapter, btw)
> 
> READS LIKE A ONE-SHOT SO DON'T WORRY IF YOU HAVEN'T READ REMORSE OR ANY OF THE OTHER WORKS IN THE MAFIA SERIES

**Four Years Later**

It was finally over. An aberrant sun graced us with its presence, though it did nothing to ward off the deep chill of the Russian winter air. Gilbert stood beside me. It seemed that he didn't know what to do with himself now; standing in worn boots covered in a sheet of powder, crushing ice with every jostle of his weight as he stood there, staring. He had matured somewhere along the line of his profession. I honestly thought that it would keep him immature, using his anger and power to control everything in his wake—or perhaps even fueling his ego to the point of no return—but he proved me wrong in this moment.

Alfred had fallen to his knees, his gun disappearing beside him. He considered himself in his hands, shaking his head back and forth as his scrubbed at his forehead and eyes. His snowsuit rustled with every movement. The blood-ridden snow around him painted a peculiar picture, Ivan Braginsky dead an arm's length away. I couldn't tell if he was falling deeper into his depression or if, after finally winning a battle against the world, he was in a state of contemptuous agony. Whatever it was kept him quiet.

Finally rising to his feet, he shot Gilbert and me a look.

"And who says you can't beat the Russians in the winter?" Gilbert softly chided, offering Alfred not a grin or a laugh, but a small cognizant nod.

Alfred offered him something of a smile in return, though he seemed to be too distracted to properly respond. I was close to offering him my condolences, or, at least, my confidence if he needed it, but couldn't find the right words. So, I stood there, and I waited until they decided to take leave back to our rooms.

The small motel was dismal on the mountain, black and brown mixed woods faring against the winds and snow just as well as I imagine a child would against a bear. It was cheap, though, and four years chasing Russian forces left us impecunious. Especially since the death of our grandfather had taken a dire toll on the Beilschmidt trades. Still, the Vargases—or, rather the Vargas—continue to support us. It was a bittersweet thing that I rather not think about.

Alfred now consulted a cup of strong coffee, staring into the murky waters as if it would give him an answer to some unasked question. I respected this silent colloquy, as I too had found myself in his exact situation many times before. Even now I stared at my own cup, biting my tongue, wondering if now was the time to ask. I could wait until we got back to Germany, or once we had gotten business under control? Maybe in the middle-of-nowhere, looking to be trapped in another storm, wasn't the best place to bring it up.

"Ludwig," my brother's hubris air was back as he stared at me. I consulted him with a quick glance. He sat near the single window of our room, the shuddering panes unable to deter his instance that the storms looked  _awesome_. It was a stupid reason, and I held back a small hope that a landslide would break the window and teach him a lesson; but, alas, he still sat there staring at me with eyes that looked brown in our lightless room. "Stop brooding and ask."

I had half a mind to pretend to be oblivious to his statement. We hadn't discussed it since his promise four years ago, and the fact that he was the one initiating the conversation caused something of guilt to coil around my chest. "I—" I started, not exactly sure what I should say.

Gilbert's grin was arrogant as ever as he threw a small bundle at me. "You're helpless."

I slowly unwrapped the brown packaging. It was sloppily taped, no doubt by Gilbert, and a bit awkward to unravel. I studied the contents silently for a moment, a bit confused. "A French dictionary and phrasebook?" I asked dubiously.

"You speak French, don't you?"

"I—well, no, not well. I only learned enough to get by during our trip with Grandpa." I admitted, a bit ashamed that even that had long ago been lost.

"Well, then I would take a good hard look at that," Gilbert suggested with a laugh. I suspected that he may be pulling a fast one, getting ready to tell me off later for being gullible, but for this I would take his word. There was no telling what I was going to find at the end of the map that had been included.

Greece. I had never been to Greece, and I didn't know Greek, either, but if it was where I was going to find even the slightest taste of closure, then maybe I should go. I had fought so hard to get him to agree—even if he was right. My reasonings were ludicrous. I was only looking for heartache. But…I owed it to the boy I had helped push to the edge.

The guilt was back.

It never really left. It was always in the back of my mind, even in days like this. I should be thinking about our victory. We took out one of the most influential Russian mobs in Europe. We killed the unkillable. Still, instead of thinking of that, or thinking of the friends that we had lost over the last four years, I couldn't help but languish over the image of the small Italian hunched over his brother's corpse. He had been yammering under his breath, rocking back and forth, hugging the body. There had been so much sorrow in that moment, and I can't help but feel responsible for all of it.

I quickly rid the thought from my head. I was right, I shouldn't be thinking about it. I should be celebrating or mourning—but mourning someone else.

I tipped my head back and finished off my coffee. The bitter taste was welcome. "Thank you, Gilbert, but I think I'll wait a little bit before flying out." I said.

He nodded. "I was hoping you'd say something like that."

* * *

Our influence was slowly growing. Word spreads quickly when a death is involved. Suddenly respected, I found myself tied up with more business than I knew what to do with. More cops, too. Detectives followed close behind me, always on my tail, only journalist seeming to know more than them. Still, Gilbert and I managed to dodge them left and right. No conviction could hold us, no trial held up, we were always let go. It was growing a bit predictable.

Groaning I slid my glasses off my nose and placed them on the desk. It had almost been a year since we returned to Germany from Russia. I had fully established my own crew, moving to the southern part of Germany while Gilbert ran the north. Sicily had gone to shit during our time in Russia, and Italian mobsters seemed to be branching out. In front of me sat a quick-tongued woman, speaking a form of German on Italians knew how to speak. It was all wrong, really.

"Am I boring you?" she demanded.

"No." I tried to appease her, but she was obdurate in her ways. She wanted to join one of our crews, claiming that she came from a strong family. I didn't recognize the name, and I was honestly a bit timid when it came to involving women. I guess one would call me sexist for it.

In the end she won out. Her stubbornness had grown on me, and I agreed to let her try out recruiting, but warned that she needed a recommendation from one of our foot soldiers before she could be considered for anything else. The look she gave me before leaving told me that such things wouldn't be a problem.

As her figure disappeared I found myself pulling out the French phrasebook Gilbert had given me.

" _Bonjour, je m'apple Ludwig_ ," I tried recreantly. It sounded funny, just as I had suspected, and quickly I closed the book. My Italian was atrocious. Why did I think that my French would be any better?

* * *

Within three months I found myself seeking French literature. My accent was no good, but the French tourists seemed to understand me when I spoke to them. I started out with simple things— _Le Petit Prince, L'etranger, Coule la Seine_  (though I found this one hard to read because I could never look at the cover. A loud bosting of the author's name always caused my heart to drop)—and soon I was growing more confident with my vocabulary. I grew to more risky works within no time, finding the unknown phrases and descriptions a wonderful puzzle. Somehow, within no time at all, I fell in love with the language. I only wish that my accent was better.

* * *

The woman I allowed to recruit for us was shot down in the streets in March. She had never been fully excepted in the Beilschmidt family, and it was a small shame. She was promising.

* * *

Maybe it was the fact that I was growing tired of everything mob-related that caused me to book a trip to Greece. I told myself that I wanted to just see the country, go on a much-needed vacation. Still, I didn't fully convince myself. My French handbook was packed, along with a few new novels, and a week's worth of attire. Nothing fancy. I took the map that Gilbert had given me, too. No use wasting my money on a new one.

* * *

It was a saturnine trip. I told myself it was because of the cramped leg room and the awful food, though neither of these things had bothered me before on long trips. I had taken a series of trains, deciding that it would be serene. I always loved long train trips. Yet, this one seemed to never end.

* * *

Wiping my hands on my pants I took a deep breath. The train doors shuttered open, tourists flooding around me—getting off, getting on, moving. I just stood there, a nervousness clutching my whole body. I couldn't deny why I had chosen to come to Greece, I couldn't push aside what really made me love French. I was here for closure, clinging to a language that didn't fit my location. Finally, I moved, stepping off the train. I had been through hell and back, yet this one step vituperated my confidence in every decision I had ever made.

Why was I here? I would never forgive myself for what I did to Feliciano.

Even his name killed me. I turned to get back on the train. I couldn't do this. Whatever Gilbert had planned for me at the end of this trip wasn't worth the torment it caused. The doors were closed. I'd wait for the next train. I'd get a ticket and be back in Germany soon enough.

Yet, the map beckoned to me. I glanced down at it. The handwriting wasn't Gilbert's, the smooth line that pointed out whatever I was looking was too precise. Gilbert would have found at least four ways to screw it up. No, this was sent to Gilbert.

I could let curiosity get the better of me. I could. Or I could run away from it. I already have for almost five years. What was another five? Another decade? Forever?

With a viscous conscious I made my decision. I would go. I would find whatever Francis was talking about five years ago. What had he found? Was he the one that sent the map to Gilbert, or was it passed on hand-to-hand?

* * *

By the time the next morning was dawning I found myself in Ovrios, Greece. It was an impossibly small town—though, I may count it as the country, as there were no set roads, just one long highway snaking along the coast, cutting off the spread houses, isolating neighbors-that I had never heard of, surrounded by trees and sitting parallel to the Aegean Sea's coast. The bus I had taken dropped me off on the highway, no official bus stop marking my arrival to anywhere. There I stood for a long while, marveling the Greek coast. It was so quiet. Not a single boat or person could be seen anywhere. Even when I turned to continue my journey I could hardly believe that anyone lived here.

Had Gilbert sent me on a wild goose-chase? I quickly started coming up with lies I could tell him when I got back. He had sounded smug on the phone when I told him I was planning a trip to Greece. Of course, he always sounded smug.

Quickly looking down at my map I set my course. It was a ten-minute walk from the road, following a gravel path preened by rain and what looked to be the tires of a Moped. I stalked the street slowly, taking in the atmosphere around me. Trees were filled with the sound of quieting critters, birds giving outright cries at me as I crunched down the road. Off in the distance I could hear a car speeding down the far-away highway.

The house winked between long vertical logs, thick green branches concealing its full figure. I slowed my pace to a standstill. My heart beat against my chest dramatically. I didn't know what I was doing, what I was going to say to whoever lived there, nothing. All I knew was that I was a hundred paces away from a stranger's door with my suitcase, a map, and a French phrasebook.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered to myself. I could go back and wait for the bus to make it's rounds again. Of course, that would leave me waiting until this time tomorrow. "Gilbert, I swear to God," I silently swore, reining my way around the trees and walking up the driveway.

The house was marvelous. Royal wood crafted its structure, a very skilled architect having incorporated a sense of grace with his plans. Large windows stared out at me, some with the curtains drawn, others thrown open. The glare of the rising sun showed me my own reflection. I looked a bit ruffled, my hair breaking from its hold and my clothes wrinkled from my travels. I took a deep breath. This was it, this was what I had been running from—whatever this was.

The front door was of solid oak. It echoed when I knocked—at first timidly, before, after waiting a long minute, I brazened my action. I stood as serious as I could, never ceasing the twirl of doubts in my head. The doorknob clicked when it was turned—I noticed that no lock had been tampered with, wondering whether or not they even used their locks out here—and it scraped across the floor when it was opened.

A woman stood there. A messy braid fell down one of her shoulders, though the rest of her was quite orderly. Her posture was impeccable, a simple brown gown without fault, icy eyes staring at me, studying me as if I were a textbook.

" _Bonjour_?" she inquired almost coldly.

French. I almost choked on my words as I spoke, excitement for the first time breaking through what had been my doubts. Maybe Gilbert hadn't been lying?

"Hello," I introduced in French, hating my accent but never letting on that I hated it. "My name is Ludwig Beilschmidt. My brother sent me."

"For what?" she demanded, though I saw something flicker in her demeanor; as if she had been expecting me. Had Gilbert given her a call?

"I—" I started, attempting to keep my integrity in the situation, "—I'm not exactly sure. I was hoping you could tell me." I tried to send her a smile, but I have never been good at those. She looked me over for a long moment. When her eyes fell on my suitcase I was prattled with shame. I looked pushy, expectant. I opened my mouth to apologize for this, to explain the situation a bit better—though I doubt I could ever find the right words—but she cut me off.

"Come in."

Her house was lovely. A picturesque interior to fit that of the exterior. There was the overlying smell of evergreen and citrus, and as she led me into a wide sitting room I could see just how much work she must put into her home. There wasn't a speck of dust to be seen anywhere. Two grandiose armchairs sat across from each other in the middle of the room, each with a small table accompanied it. One table was flawless, the other housed a small white mug with brown splotches staining the lip. A hearth sat below a vast mantle, the wall parallel to us taken up by a huge window, looking out to a wooden patio and the forest.

"Would you like anything to drink?" the woman offered politely.

"That would be wonderful," I said, nodding my head quaintly.

She left, leaving me alone in the vast living area. I admired the artwork on the wall. It took the tone of the room and shattered it, abstract pieces of waves or people colored vibrantly. At first I counted a total of four paintings, but when I stepped toward the center of the room there was one hidden by the shoulder of a bookcase. Eagerly I found myself walking further in to discover it.

My heart stopped.

A painting of a young man in his early twenties grinning like a fool stared at me. Dark brunette hair was piously haloed by the backdrop of what looked to be a horizon, trees dotting around him, as if he had been drawn grinning on a mountaintop. His brown eyes laughed.

I almost dropped seeing Lovino like that. Never had I seen the Italian anything other than sour or depressed. I even started considering that it wasn't Lovino. It couldn't be.

The woman had returned. Her steps were quiet, but when she sighed behind me I turned. "Where did you get this?" I demanded. I hadn't meant to sound rude, but I didn't know what to think anymore. Had this woman known Lovino and Feliciano? Why would Gilbert send me here?

She didn't say anything at first, just stared at the painting for a long while longer. It was as if she were deciding whether to tell me something.

"Why did Gilbert send me here?" I asked, pining for something, anything. I was so lost. I knew that it had something to do with Feliciano, I knew that much because it what had sent me into my own burst of madness five years ago. I had killed the boy. I hadn't been strong enough to say no to simple orders, and even in his darkness Feliciano found a way to break through. Feliciano's heart had always been stronger than my whole being, and I broke it. And now I stand before a painting of his brother, speaking a language with a terrible accent, and waiting for a woman to answer my pleas. She took her time, every second killing me a little more.

"Feliciano is dead," she finally said.

A palatable point, yet it broke something in me. I could feel what had been morphing into something of hope shatter, supplanting my heart with a block of cement. "I know that," I said. "That still doesn't answer my question. Why did Gilbert send me here? Who are you and what did you have to do with the Vargases."

"I have nothing to do with the Vargases," she dismissed.

"Then how do you have a picture of Lovino Vargas on your wall?" I insisted.

She frowned at me. The look that she sent at me painted her as older than what I suspected her to be. Perhaps it was just because I was bad at telling the age of woman, but she didn't look any older than fifty.

Tractably, I submitted to her stare. "I'm sorry," I sighed. "It's just," I allowed my gaze to settle back on Lovino, so happy, "it's just I don't know much when it comes to them. I only knew them for a short while."

"Then why are you here?"

I shrugged. "Hoping it makes me feel better, I guess," I admitted. "I—I fucked up. I really fucked up." There was just no other way to put it. Part of me wished that she would disagree with me, or ask me what I meant, but she never did. She just moved away from the painting.

"Follow me," she ordered.

Together we walked through a long hallway. It was wide enough to fit both of us shoulder-to-shoulder, but of course I hung back, admiring the hall's simple decor of plotted flours and bright light fixtures. We passed a couple doors before settling for one at the end of the hall. She opened it.

A sudden crash from inside the room sounded.

"Ah! Madam!" Someone half-yelled half-laughed. "I'm really sorry for the mess but I just really couldn't stop myself and—"

"Get down from there!" She demanded, hastily cutting off the prattling.

I stopped dead in my tracks when she moved out of the way so that I could see into the room. It was huge, twice the size of the living area, filled with art supplies. The room seemed to be windowless—or wall-less, seeing as every corner was connected by glass—with canvases colored brightly scattered about. A chunk of clay sat on a table near the middle of the room, unmolded but in the process of being cut, and a large make-shift latter (as, I couldn't call it a real latter for it seemed to be made out of stacked stools) leaning dangerously as it attempted to reach the ceiling. At the top of the stack was a paint-covered-and-very-not-dead-Feliciano-Vargas.

He grinned down at the woman innocently.

"Are you painting the ceiling?" She demanded, red crawling up her neck.

"Well, yes, I am, but you see it was just so boring and I couldn't resist trying to change it up!"

"What will my guests think?"

"That it's very intuitive and artistic!" Feliciano beamed at her.

I couldn't breathe. Was I seeing things? Had I gone crazy? Feliciano was dead—he had  _jumped off a cliff_. There was no surviving that.

"Get down this instant!"

"Okay!" He took a long minute, looking down and blowing his cheeks up. "Be, it seems we have an issue, Madam."

"Which is?"

"I forgot that I was terribly afraid of heights when I embarked on this journey and now I'm dying inside."

"Just—Just stay calm. Stop moving!" The young man—as his features had matured since the last time I saw him—wriggled around on his thrown of stools, kicking his feet and letting out nervous giggles. "Stop moving! Can you reach my hand?"

"Aha nope!"

"You didn't even try!"

"Yup, yup, yup, nope!" He chided, closing his eyes and kicking his legs around.

"Stop that! Right now." She let out a disgruntled groan. "Try sliding down."

He peeked at her, offering her a wide smile, before shaking his head and closing his eyes again. "Aha nope!"

She jumped, grabbing at his feet. He squeaked, kicking her away and attempting to clamber further onto the seat. The leaning tower had reached its movement-capacity, and within a blink of an eye it toppled. Feliciano and the woman screamed, Feliciano falling and the woman stepping out of the way.

It all had happened so quickly that I didn't even have a chance to move. Soon enough the Italian picked himself up from the sea of wooden stools, groaning and rubbing his behind. "That hurt," he whined.

The woman whacked him on the head. "Don't do that!" she scolded. "And I expect you to clean the ceiling. You'll go to Basch's house tomorrow and ask to borrow his ladder."

"No!" Feliciano pleaded. "He'll shoot me!"

"He will not!"

"He said—"

"Because you decided to paint his fence without asking!"

Feliciano laughed. "I thought he would like it."

The women gave up, shaking her head with a sigh. She pinched the bridge of her nose, not knowing exactly how to reprimand the grown man.

He acted like he had the first time I met him. He was happy, talkative, naïve. And, before I could think anything else, he was on his feet and practically jumping towards me. "Oh! Hello, there, I didn't see you!" He greeted with an outstretched hand.

I quietly noted how his French accent was perfect, melodic, palatable. One love language to another.

"I—Hello," I said, wishing that my voice didn't sound like I was inquiring something—despite me wanting to inquire everything—and would just be normal for a second while I try to wrap my mind around things. "I—Hello," I repeated, unable to come up with the right words.

Feliciano laughed. It was so bubbly, so joyous, and it left me standing there starstruck. Feliciano was alive. He didn't remember anything, obviously, but…but that was good. "You look like you've seen a ghost!" He stated rather ironically. "Gabriel."

My breath caught in my throat. Gabriel—that was the kid Lovino had told me about. The one that Feliciano had killed because he was ashamed of being gay. The one that supposedly looked just like me. I swallowed the lump in my throat. "What?"

He hummed, slightly confused. "My name?" he giggled. "I'm Gabriel. What's your name?"

He's Gabriel. Feliciano Vargas is dead. I stammered a few lines, before clearing my throat—in a failed attempt to fix the image that I had so dolefully created for myself—and managing a powerful (maybe a bit too aggressive) "Ludwig."

"Be, it's nice to meet you, Ludwig!" Feliciano cooed—Gabriel cooed. I couldn't switch between the two. He stared up at me with golden eyes, innocent and unaware of everything that I put him through! He looked like he even trusted me. A stranger, a mindless soldier that would have killed him if those were the orders. Why did he look like that? Why did he smile like that?

Half of me wishes I would have stayed on the train platform and waiting for another train back to Germany. This was too much. He was too much. Too trusting, too kind, too easy to impress. I didn't deserve the trust. I had pushed him further than anyone, pushing him to remember what he was doing and what he had done despite Lovino's warnings! I was his guard, damn it, and I put him in more danger than anyone else.

But I couldn't do anything about that now. All I could do was stare into golden eyes and try not to cry.

* * *

He decided that he would fill the conversation between the two of us. We sat in the lavish armchairs, sipping at our respective drinks (he handled his hot chocolate with the grace of a dancer, while I attempted not to spill my coffee just by looking at it). I was careful with everything I said, not wanting to tick him off in any way, telling him I was on vacation and was just passing through when I got off at the wrong bus stop. I would have told him I was visiting the mistress but realizing promptly I never learned her name I cut that idea short.

He offered to show me around, introduce me to the neighbors—he even got excited when he realized that he wouldn't have to go fetch the ladder alone, cooing that I would protect him because I looked very strong. I just let him talk.

When the evening boiled down and Feliciano—Gabriel—had left the room I took another look at the image of Lovino. It seemed to be from a dream, and now I realized that was because it was. The boy didn't seem to retain any memories from his life in Italy, claiming to have been raised right here in Greece. Of course, it was the perfect spot to feed the lie. Neighbors too far away to really know, a lonesome beach to pretend to remember. I sighed, crossing my arms and shaking my head at the happy painting.

"Isn't he beautiful?" Feli—Gabriel—said from behind me.

"I—" I stammered, not knowing what to say.

"I like to joke that we were lovers in a past life," he laughed. "I can never get him out of my head! He's always scowling there, though, so when I paint him I make sure to make him happy. He's much prettier when he's happy, I think."

"Yeah," I agreed quietly, "yeah, I like him better when he's happy, too."

* * *

When I told Feliciano—Gabriel—that I had to leave he seemed a bit distraught. "But you just got here!" he cried.

"It was never my intentions to be here," I attempted to excuse. I didn't want to leave, but I had to. I had a crew to run back home, I couldn't stay in Greece just because some boy from my past wasn't dead! Even if I hated myself for it, I had to be realistic. "I must get going."

"But you could stay for just a little while longer!" he persuaded. "I could make us breakfast! Oh, please stay, Ludwig!"

My heart clenched at those words. I looked away from him, afraid the emotion showed on my features. He—This was too raw. I needed to think things over. I had stayed in the guest room, thinking things over for a bit before Fe—Gabriel—had decided to come in for a midnight chat. I couldn't turn him away when he started confiding in me about his nightmare that he had been having.

It was all too much like the first time I met him. He pulls me in with his talkative and youthful spirit, locking me down with the prospects that he needs me. Only, unlike last time there was no order for me to stay. No yelling Italians at four in the morning waking me up, barging in my room to tell me that we're leaving for the next train. No mob boss and talk of loyalty.

So, it only made sense that I leave. As soon as possible. I found my closure—he wasn't dead—and now I could leave feeling better than ever and finally stop obsessing over the kid that I killed.

But, somehow the mellifluous brunette found a way to keep me captive for a whole week. He was so queer in his ways and in his attitudes that I couldn't just leave. For the first time in my life I felt that there was a brightness before me that could help push me towards a future, not just drag me along day-by-day. Though his face still wrought my gut, and his smiles made me feel like scum at times, I found myself adoring every bit of his company. His long, useless tangents, the way he rubbed his nose when something didn't smell right, those honey eyes that just stared. Everything about him was perfect. I hated myself for even thinking it.

"I really do have to go, my vacation time is running out," I told him. He sent me a sad look, though he didn't cry. He hadn't cried at all through-out the week.

"Can I come with you?" he requested. My heart flipped. I had promised to take him to Germany five years ago, hadn't I? Taking him there now was out of the question. I would not—ever—put him in a situation like that again.

"No, Gabriel," I sighed.

"Well, then can I write you?"

If people found out that he was alive he would be dead within a month. The Vargas name had many enemies attached to it. "I don't think that would be a good idea, either."

"Why?" he demanded. "Do you have a girlfriend at home that would get jealous?"

"Yes," I lied, shaking my head with an eyeroll. "She would most likely come after you."

"With long red claws?" he insisted, coming at me playfully with his hands, as if he were about to scratch me.

"The longest," I agreed, grabbing his wrists.

He grinned at me, just staring and giggling again. He did that a lot. "Well, I think I may have to come after her," he sighed meticulously. "When will you be back?"

"I—I don't know." I hadn't meant to stay this long. There was no way I was going to be able to steal another trip away to Greece without drawing suspicion to myself. Even me being here now would put Gabriel in danger.

"Will you remember me?" he asked innocently. If I wasn't a grown man, and he wasn't a grown man, I may have even described the way he was blinking as 'batting his eyelashes,' but of course we are both grown men.

"Of course," I relented. "How could I possibly forget the man that refused to let me sleep with his babbling?"

He pouted at my teasing, but I knew that it was feigned. "Oh, don't be so rude. What would you have done instead?"

I hummed in thought. "Sleep, probably."

He grinned. "See! I saved you. You can thank me next time you're here."

I was going to press my teasing a little further, or saying something at all, but the Italian quickly got up on his toes and stole a quick kiss. I hadn't expected that. At all.

"Just promise not to forget me," he said.

I nodded stiffly. " _Ja_."

* * *

Two years have passed since I last saw him. Gilbert has finally agreed to take over the whole of the Beilschmidt family business. It took a bit of convincing, a lot of it actually, and I had to tie up a lot of loose ends with some of my business partners, but tonight it'll be final.

I can't be too rash in my movements. If the wrong person hears of my relocation it would put Fe—Gabriel in extreme danger. So, I must be careful.

I'm taking a plane this time. It'll be faster—it's already been too long. For seven years he's been on my mind. I'm ready to stop think about him and finally be allowed to just be with him. I wish that we could have kept correspondence.

As I walk up to a door I haven't been able to stop dreaming about I take a deep breath. My whole body is stiff. What if he doesn't remember me? It's a possibility. I should have called first. Setting aside my doubts, I reach up and knock.

Madam Lucille opened the door, her eyes looking over me the same way that they had two years prior. This time when her eyes land on my luggage I can feel the same shame. I really should have called. I was being rude by barging in like this. This wasn't Gabriel's home, or my home, and I really should have asked—

"Your brother sent word of your arrival," she sighs.

"I—" I start out sheepishly, rubbing the back of my neck. I really needed to get better at finding the right words.

"Ludwig!" Felician—Gabriel screams. Madam Lucille quickly moves out of the way, giving way for the bouncing Italian to fly out of the door. "I thought you were never coming back!" He screams in my ear, arms wrapping around my neck like a vice.

"I promised I would remember you," I laugh softly, attempting not to let the boy know that he was choking me.

"How long are you here for?" He demands, looking down at my luggage.

I smile at him. "As long as you want me to."

He grins, bouncing up and locking my lips with his. This time I was ready.

 

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTES
> 
> Ahh swirling cop-outs and shit. I'm so glad I'm not the only one that hates it, and if you want to see a real ending/know what the fuck is going on then feel free to go check out my Mafia trilogy. None of the other ones will get a happy chapter because now that I know we're all on the same page I will stick to my guns and let France keep his toothpicks.
> 
> HISTORICAL NOTES
> 
> When people escape from organized crime they're never really safe. Many have shared stories of never being able to stay on schedule for anything and not being able to show their faces in certain cities ever again.
> 
> CONTEST-Y NOTES
> 
> Okie, this isn't a contest persayyy (or at all), but it is a thing that I want to offer the readers! In light of Hetalia slowly become less active, I want to see more people writing fics, or drawing, or music-video-ing, or whatever-ing it up for the fandom! So, I will offer you this: a list of generic fucking prompts at the end of each of my stories. If you write for a plot (or draw or compose or whatever) at the end of one of these, I'll take a prompt from you. The only condition is that it must be Hetalia related. It can be any pairing, any situation, any-pretty-much-anything (you can't tell me how long to make it, tho), which is pretty scary but I'm offering it.
> 
> The prompt for the end of this fic is:
> 
> Organized Crime.
> 
> Do anything you want with that. Let's see some more mafia, some swindling Japanese, Russian prostitutes, British suits, I don't care! All I ask is that it's Hetalia and that it's a project that you FINISH (one-shots are welcome).
> 
> ENDING NOTES
> 
> Whoop, finished this in a month and one day. I'm probably never going to go back and edit this version of this story, so sorry for the inconsistencies with tone from chapters 1&2 – the rest of the story. If you got this far I doubt you care, though. It was a lot of fun to write, and there's two more stories in the series. Sacrificial Surrender, which is Lovino's tale, and Bastard of a Massachusetts Mafia, which is Alfred's. I hope to see you guys there!
> 
> Until we meet again,
> 
> Au revoir.


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